I Am Tom Marvolo Riddle
by A Story-Teller
Summary: AU. Magic saved Merope from death when she gave birth to Tom Riddle Jnr. She raises him and he grows powerful but different from the man he would have been. Can he break the hold the spirit of Slytherin has on him or must he inevitably become a monster?
1. Prologue: For Love of a Child

**Disclaimer: **It all belongs to J K Rowling. I'm only having fun with her characters here.

**Synopsis:** AU. Magic saved Merope Riddle from death the night she gave birth to Tom Riddle Jnr. Alone she raises her boy with a guarded love, and he grows strong and powerful but _different_ from the man he would have been. Will he be able to break the hold the spirit of Salazar Slytherin has on his chosen heir, or will he succumb inevitably to the Dark Arts and become a worse monster than the original Voldemort?

If you enjoy this and want it to continue, review!

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**I am Tom Marvolo Riddle**

_Prologue_

It was a bitterly cold New Year's Eve.

Snow blew savagely from above and shadowed figures walked bent and double over darkened streets, their scarves pulled tightly over their faces in a vain attempt to keep out the biting cold. Evening had plunged the highways into gloomy darkness with only the odd, flickering lamppost lighting the way for the pitiful specimens who still wandered the empty streets.

The orphanage stood desolately on the corner of a particularly old-fashioned London street, the warm pulsing glow from the lights inside the only beacon of hope and refuge for a fair few miles around.

Staggering pathetically under the weight of a swollen pregnant belly, Merope Riddle trudged her way slowly towards the grim looking building promising such a warm interior.

On her face, tears of bitterness and helplessness had already frozen to form harsh icy streaks that bit into the warm flesh of her cheeks.

Abandoned for nine months while this life grew within her, the life that _he _had brought into existence… Merope wept bitterly. Tom Riddle had been no angel then. Refused to be her dark-haired, deep blue-eyed saviour who promised he'd love her until the end of time, protecting her forever from her abusive family.

Slipping slightly on the icy surface, she slowly climbed up the small couple of steps that led to the large front door of the orphanage, leaning heavily on the iron rail that ran along parallel at either side of the staircase. Her breath coming in heaving gasps, she rested for a moment as she finally reached the top, a hand falling to lie on her grossly swollen belly.

He'd run. He'd run the moment he'd thrust this upon her, the moment he'd forced into her this unwelcome life that had seemed to latch itself within her, feeding off her grief. In her anger, she had refused to believe in any other reason for her husband's sudden disappearance.

Sobbing uncontrollably she raised a numb hand to the door and knocked once, twice, before her frozen hand fell limply back down to her side. A few silent moments passed. Then Merope could hear the sound of clatter within and the annoyed crow-like voice of a middle-aged woman bustling about.

'Alright, alright I'll get it, but you just make sure Meredith gets to sleep within the next couple of minutes, because if I hear her screech and wail for that stuffed rabbit of hers one more time, I'll…'

A skinny sharp-featured young woman, who did indeed look like a crow as much as she sounded like one, had opened the door, and suddenly stopped in mid-sentence. Wearily, Merope pulled herself into an upright standing position, her hands trembling as she made to grasp the skinny woman's wrist.

'Please… I need, shelter… I need…'

'I think I know perfectly well what you need, my dear,' the woman interrupted, her wide eyes coming to rest sadly on Merope's bulging belly, 'Samantha!'

A second later, a tall well-built girl with long wispy blond hair who looked only about 16 years of age had joined the woman at the door.

'Quick, help me take this poor woman inside, that baby of hers doesn't seem to want to wait…'

The tall girl nodded vigorously, her strong arms reaching out to take Merope from under the armpits and just in time, for the ominous words were accompanied by a visible kick that caused Merope to groan loudly, collapsing completely against Samantha.

'Hurry, hurry child!'

Merope felt herself being lifted from the ground, and then her eyes fluttered, and all she could remember was a series of bright light bulbs flashing by overhead on grey walls.

Then she felt soft leather and cushions underneath her and realised that she had been placed on a sofa. Opening her eyes she saw the girl's concerned face above her and beyond, the other young woman's more harshly defined face screwed up in a clear expression of anxiety.

'Well don't just stand there gawping! Fetch the towels and warm water! Hurry, hurry!'

And then Merope closed her eyes and screamed.

The pain was worse than she could have expected. More terrible than she could have ever known from gazing lovingly at Tom's beautiful sleeping form during those warm nights. And it grew and grew, making her scream more and more loudly until Merope thought she would surely die of agony.

Through the vast pain, she was only just aware of the bony hand that had encircled her trembling palm. Merope gripped it fiercely and didn't let go, tears leaking out of her closed lids.

What seemed like hours passed, and then Merope could feel warm water on her forehead. The girl, Samantha, had placed a wet flannel on her sweat-strewn face and was gently mopping up the mingled sweat and tears. But it was too much, it was all too much…

The baby's cry caused her watery eyes to open wide. Her shuddering body stilled in shock as she heard it make the noise again; a soft gurgling sound that was almost a laugh. For some reason the sound, and the sudden understanding that _it_ was outside her body, suddenly scared her more than when she been pregnant.

All of a sudden, she felt strong hands gripping her again under the armpits and levering her up into a half-sitting position. Unable to resist, Merope allowed herself to be moved, and then her arms to be arranged in a motherly fashion to hold the unmoving, blood-soaked baby that was placed within them.

'It's a beautiful boy.' She heard the young skinny woman murmur dutifully, but Merope wasn't really listening. She had known all along. She had known it would be just like him. Just like his father.

Glancing down, she shuddered involuntarily at the bloody mess she had been made to cradle. Her son was staring up at her with deep dark eyes that held her teary gaze and didn't seem to want to let go. Merope knew she should be happy, but all she felt was icy dread.

'Well? What's going to be this fine boy's name then?'

The woman's crow-like voice cut through Merope's dazed brain like a knife. She blinked, but remained gazing straight into her son's unblinking eyes.

'T-Tom. His name will be Tom.'

As if he could be called anything other, Merope thought sadly, raising a hand hesitantly to touch the child's small face. Her son seemed to enjoy her touch, however, closing his eyes and leaning in to press against her fingers, gurgling happily. Merope retracted her hand quickly.

'Anything else?' The woman asked gently, watching the scene with a slight frown on her face. Merope paused, closing her eyes.

'His name… will be Tom Marvolo Riddle,' she said simply and solemnly, but it sounded as though she were condemning someone to death. 'Tom, for that is the name of his father, and Marvolo, for it is the name of my father…' she said, still seriously, though there was sadness and fear and utter weariness in her voice now as well.

'Very well then, dear…'

Merope almost sighed with relief as she felt arms take away the warm, wet bundle off her lap. Beside her the tall girl Samantha was dabbing warm water on her brow again, and Merope felt herself feeling very tired all of a sudden.

Stirring slightly, she frowned as she felt a strange exhaustion overtaking her, robbing her of all strength, as every small movement seemed to become a laborious chore. Her concentration wavering as well, Merope found it painful just trying to fight off this peculiar feeling that was washing over her.

It really was a strange sensation. A complete uncaring for the world was filling her, and an overwhelming compulsion to just fade away from its troubles.

Merope felt herself longing for a deep, dark sleep. A warm feeling gripped her brain and she found herself wanting to lie down, wanting to close her eyes, wanting to just drift away…

Unexplainably her breathing began to grow shorter and shorter with each breath and everything was suddenly starting to pitch strangely out of focus.

Her eyes closing of their own accord, she dimly heard the woman's voice screeching to the terrified girl to stop whatever it was she was doing. From what seemed like miles away she heard the sounds of running footsteps, raised voices… and then, most dreadful of all, the heart-breaking noise of a baby crying.

The sound brought fresh tears to Merope's eyes, as she instantly realised what it was. The voice of her son was crying out for his dying mother… Her son… Her baby Tom…

He didn't want her to die…

He _wouldn't_ let her die.

Eyelids flickering uncontrollably, Merope's whole body twitched as she felt herself unconsciously take an enormous gulp of air.

Shuddering she observed from within at how her body seemed to regain a sense of itself. Her breathing was returning in steady intakes of breath, her vision no longer swam in front of her and Merope felt the beginnings of numerous aches and pains following her recent labour start to assault her mind.

Groaning loudly, Merope twisted her head sharply to one side, feeling all too real pain running up like electricity along the length of her body, replacing the numbing coldness of a few moments before.

From somewhere above she heard what sounded like a male voice, declaring her 'stable' and then several female voices sighing in relief.

But what she remembered most of all was the quiet happy gurgles of a newborn baby, before she felt exhaustion take her, and she fell into a deep sleep.


	2. Chapter 1: For love of a Mother

I'm lazy. This could have come out months ago... Nevertheless I hope you enjoy! (And review!)

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_Chapter One_

Far out in the countryside, as the local legends claimed, stood the odd run-down building.

The source of inspiration for gossipers down in the local village: _over 500 years old_ was the rumour, passed from one wizened old man to his neighbour, while the younger men drank their ale and paid no attention._ Completely abandoned for centuries…_

The Ancient House, it was called.

Barely a cottage, with one single room that housed little but worn furniture, threadbare from generations of abuse by mice and rats and other creatures of a lesser savoury nature.

All the windows were reputedly broken… glass littered the floor. Everywhere a thick layer of dust lay upon the ground and up the walls…

And the atmosphere there, by popular legend, was so stale and fetid that even to the more lively lads of the village, breaking into the house for a joke was considered a health hazard.

But for the two quiet occupants who had made their home here, the Ancient House had proven to be nothing more than a decrepit old cottage, whose handy mythic qualities had been invaluable in keeping the gullible Muggles away...

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Putting both hands in the sink, Merope Riddle returned to the familiar task of washing the dishes, the old-fashioned Muggle way, of course, without the use of magic. 

In the past, circumstances with magic had affected the witch so much that she had sworn off using it, or raising her wand at all if she could help it, preferring instead to do things the Muggle way.

Taking the handle of a dirty mug, Merope pushed inside it with her other hand, a foaming flannel clasped in her fist, which she then proceeded to use in scrubbing the entire innards of the china thoroughly. Placing the clean cup on the draining board beside her, Merope returned to the sink, this time to attack a plate.

A bowl, a wooden cup and another plate followed, before Merope paused to momentarily gaze out the window.

Her son still had not moved from his spot in the garden.

Sitting silently on a fallen log in the rough forest immediately outside the cottage, his remarkable stillness and concentration looked particularly unnatural on the face of the boy only 6 years of age. Merope frowned, dropping the flannel absent-mindedly and craning her neck to see what her Tom was so occupied with.

From a clearer vantage point, Merope saw Riddle's hands rested on his knees and he appeared to be gazing thoughtfully at a small rabbit that sat on its haunches a few feet away from him. The creature, she observed, sat just as still as her son, neither trying to dart away from the human, nor wanting to come any closer than it already was. Quieter than the dead, each simply stared at the other.

From inside the cottage, Merope stared at the abnormal scene for a split second longer, before muttering darkly and returning to her housework.

Her son had always been a strange little boy. From a very early age he had shown a curious fascination for all the small things around him, the odd little things that others missed. An old shoelace lying on the riverbank… A torn piece of rough fabric chanced upon… The remains of dead voles…

All these things Merope knew her son had kept and collected, hiding them away in a box under his bed. Sometimes at night, while he had been sleeping, she had crossed the single room of their house and opened his box of treasures, wondering what new things he had found and stored. Each time there had been something different, a new oddment… of sorts.

Drying the last of the two plates, Merope gazed out the window again to see Tom stirring from his position on the log. His eyes had finally left the rabbit, which immediately darted away into the undergrowth. Merope watched him make his way slowly back from garden, wandering eventually through the open back door.

Without mentioning a word to his mother, he crossed the room, heading straight to his bed and pulling out the box from under it. Reaching a hand into his trouser pocket, he placed something hurriedly inside his box, before quickly closing it again and replacing it under the bed. Rubbing his small thin hands together he turned around, slowly making eye contact with his mother. Instantly, his serious young face seemed to soften subtly.

'Well… aren't you going to give me a hug, Mother?' He asked quietly.

By Merlin, he sounded so sweet and sincere; his voice possessing the gentle tone that would charm any adult who heard it and, when he was older, would make any number of girls swoon at his feet.

But to his mother, Tom Riddle's voice was nothing but a cunning guise, and to anyone else taking a closer look at the scene, they would have observed the certain hardness in his young eyes as he spoke, that warningly told of displeasure should anybody fail to comply with his wishes.

Merope paused for a moment. Then forcing a smile, she walked over to her Tom, bent down to his height and wrapped her arms lightly around his small shoulders, drawing him close.

She almost flinched when she felt his own skinny arms wrap around her neck and hold her tighter. Looking down, Merope saw his dark bushy head press forcefully against the crook of her arm, felt his heat crush against her body. And yet, and yet… for the first time, despite herself, Merope found that she had a faint smile on her lips.

It really was alarming; how the cold exterior of her son could disappear, become replaced with such fierce… passion at the slightest giving of affection she gave her son. But deep down inside Merope always felt a calming sense of gratification mingled with her hesitation at the indulgence of her son's strange, possessive love…

For sometimes, just sometimes, it was almost as if her Tom, her old Tom, was embracing her again. Clinging desperately to her again with that fierce love she had once poured into his veins…

Merope trembled suddenly. Poor boy… He would never understand what he did to her, when he hugged his mother like that, what fantasies he gave her again. Nor would he ever understand her reservations, her tense frame as she accepted his sacrifice of emotion, forever ashamed of what she had done, and what she now took from her own son instead.

She felt her eyes prick with tears. Merope knew she was a bad mother, she knew Tom deserved better, but she was powerless in his arms and she needed to take something from the close contact while it lasted.

The young boy, slowly drawing away from her light embrace, suddenly found himself being pulled back into a fiercer, full-blooded hug that he had initially craved for from his mother.

Closing his eyes, Tom Riddle sighed in Merope's arms.

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She had always been very careful around the subject of magic around him. 

Shunning the stuff herself, she couldn't deny however, that her Tom had inherited a strong aptitude and talent for magic himself from his formidable ancestors. It had long become apparent without him ever having touched a wand.

An aura of power had existed around him from even the youngest of ages, and its mighty presence had forever influenced those with whom he came into contact with.

The creatures of the forest, rabbits, foxes, even badgers, had for a long time been daily held in thrall to his wishes, frozen and silent at his command.

And when he had grown tired of them, he had moved onto humans; the few inhabitants who came into contact with him, when he stole into the nearby village, were noted for frequently tripping up over themselves as they passed a boy in the street, often accompanied to the sound of a quiet laugh.

Merope herself, of course, was most of all aware of the powers her son had discovered as an infant and gleefully grasped with both hands, putting them to use for his own enjoyment. It was with great reluctance as he grew, that she admitted he had probably begun to use them on her as well, in ways to his own liking…

The true extent of his powers, however… These had never been more apparent than when they had both been walking together one day through the forest, on their way to acquire food down in the Muggle village…

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The day was foggy, the sun overcast by dark clouds. Merope frowned, expecting rain to fall any minute. Muttering ominously, she had hurried the two of them along as fast she could, trying to get them inside and under the cover of the market stalls as soon as possible. 

Walking fast, with a six year-old Tom running slightly ahead at her side, Merope failed to notice the Muggle tramp appear from behind the trunk of a tree before she had practically ran slap bang right into him.

Her forehead bumped into his dirty, reeking shirt and Merope flinched and jumped back.

'Sorry… excuse me,' she mumbled, her head downcast, eyes averted.

Moving to the right of him, she made to continue on her way but the man had suddenly grabbed her wrist.

'Not so fast, lady. That wasn't a mighty kind thing you did to me…'

Merope cringed. His breath stank of old, sour ale and she almost choked as he leered down at her, his squinty eyes taking in her small frame interestedly.

'That wasn't mighty kind at all… Say… I think you ought to be apologising better than that for what you done…'

In a moment he had spun her around and pinned both arms behind her back next to a tree. Pressing his body tightly next to hers so she couldn't escape, the man grinned as his arms and hands were left free to roam his prize. Merope blanched, the scene all too familiar, the hands on her arms, on her breasts, on her back all too reminiscent of another…

Ahead of her Tom had paused and spun round, his icy blue eyes taking in the scene seriously, his young body trembling violently.

Merope screamed as his grip increased on her skinny arms. In one fluid movement the tramp slapped her face, cutting the sound off.

'Not a noise, whore, or afterwards I kill you _and_ the whelp…'

Merope instantly fell silent though tears leaked silently from eyes. The tramp's face cut right into her line of vision, only a few millimetres from her own, a sort of squashed, red crumpled face, with pale cloudy eyes and pupils that were not whole and circular, but seemed to drip past the iris, like runny ink.

Her breath grew ragged in dread as one hand took both of her arms in its grip while the other reached down for her skirt…

And then something happened.

Suddenly the man's wide grin of triumph was changing before Merope's eyes, his tight lips stretching into an unmistakable grimace of pain. And as his hand pulled away from her skirt, she could see why.

Thick white maggots and red tapeworms were biting their way out of the skin of his wrist. Chewing their way through the tissue and bone that held the limb onto his arm with a bloodthirsty intensity horrific to watch.

The holes where they emerged from within the flesh were lined with red and blood stained the bodies of the swollen parasites.

The tramp's mouth opened, a large 'O' of speechless horror. He staggered away from Merope in a dizzy manner, his wide white eyes fixed unblinking on his wrist that was slowly being eaten away. The smell emanating from the stump of his arm was sickening; Merope clamped a freed hand to her face, her stomach lurching.

With the final sound of a ripping tendon, the mutilated limb fell heavily onto the forest floor. With a dull thump, the unconscious body of the tramp fell beside it, the man's face still frozen in silent agony.

Behind the fallen Muggle, Merope could see her Tom still shivering although his face was losing its serious, concentrated look and his eyes were no longer burning with the cold blue flame that had earlier alighted them.

Instead a look of pure terror and revulsion was washing over the boy's face.

Merope felt her breath catch and her eyes grow moist again. Her poor boy… her poor, terrified, _strong _little boy…

In a heartbeat she had stooped to her knees and was embracing her trembling son tightly, muttering words of comfort in his ear, stroking his hair rhythmically. She felt him resist at first, clenching his hands and setting his jaw in an unnaturally severe way. Then he relaxed, abandoning himself to the shock and confused emotions that engulfed him…

Later that evening on their way back to the Ancient House Merope suddenly realised that where Tom had buried his face in her shawl, there remained a damp patch of wet tears. In all his years, it was the first time Merope had known her son to cry.

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A few months after the incident, Tom began to ask questions.

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Next chapter's teaser:_

Tom's little forehead creased, eyes narrowed, "I'm not scared mother! I'm simply… I want to know… I want to know what's wrong with me, Mother, why can I do it? Why did I _feel_…"

Merope watched her son's face crease further. Whatever emotion her Tom was feeling he was doing his hardest to clamp it down. Merope felt a pain in her chest.

"Tom…" she spoke softer, dropping to her knees in front of him and putting a hand on his small shoulder, "do not worry yourself over this… I… I can help you"

Tom locked eyes with her, instantly alert. "You… you can? You know how? Tell me, why… and what more? What more is there, I need to know…" he was now gripping his mother's shoulders tightly, "…Tell me who, _what_, I am…"


	3. Chapter 2: Worthy

Ok Ok...because you asked for it! (sorry for the delay - please review?)

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_Chapter Two_

Tom enjoyed to read. Often Merope would finish her household chores simply to observe him, sitting quietly, just a book in his hand. Sometimes he would read for several days at a time.

How he had picked up the skill, from analysing the pages of stolen books, so quickly, Merope could never fathom. Of course she had helped him at first; dutifully explaining the meanings of the little squiggles on the page. But relatively quickly her explanations had begun to irritate rather than enlighten. After a time she had learnt it best to leave him alone with his books and get on with it; he seemed to improve a faster rate that way anyway.

It was one warm autumn day, and Tom was reading in the garden. At the sound of her approaching footsteps he looked up from the pages of his most recent book, one he said he had acquired from the village bookshop.

What Merope noticed immediately was that her little boy's usual smile at the sight of his mother bringing him his cup of warm milk was strangely absent today.

What she realised later was how that should have been warning enough.

Tom Riddle, seated on his customary log in the tangled forest outside the Ancient House, regarded his mother carefully, his fingers idly spreading themselves over the open pages of the stolen book as she set down the wooden cup next to him, the complete while without saying a word. He watched her as she straightened and then turned to back to re-enter the house. He closed his book with a snap.

"Wait. I have something I need to tell you Mother. Something important. I want to show you something. Come back here please."

Merope paused, turned. A hesitant smile crept onto her features.

"Of course… I am always interested in what my clever boy has to show me…"

Tom's eyes were very hard for a seven year old. He raised the cover of the book he was holding so that his mother could read the title.

"I saw this through a window in the village the last time we went. I know we don't have much money for anything other than food, so I just took it, while you were talking to that stranger. I liked the picture on the front, I find it… interesting."

Merope looked at it. Certainly, the curling, writhing form of the serpentine creature emblazoned in emerald made an arresting sight. Merope bit her lip absently.

"It certainly looks like an interesting book Tom. Is the story it contains as…attractive as the front cover?"

Tom Riddle sighed; a little boy's expression of exasperation with a lesser witted playmate.

"It is no bedtime story mother, it is a…. a _documentary_ on a group of people that do strange things to each other, and to other people around them…' he paused momentarily, opening the book, his fingers indicating at what lay within.

"…In the book there are pictures of them _chanting_ strange words, calling out to what they imagine are _spirits_ of the air, the sea, of fire and earth. They make people do things, say things, which they want them to say with a power the spirits give them. In this chapter a man is making another crawl on his knees… They call themselves Daemon Mages, and what they do, _magik_… I find it utterly fascinating."

Merope felt her chest heave. Tom had been staring at her the whole time he had said this, the hard look still in his ice-blue eyes. He spoke again, looking down at his book.

"I really like the pictures mother, I think you should see some of them… there's one… yes, here it is! Here, the Mage has made his enemy's ear fall off, look can you see? Using his _magik_…"

Merope's eyes quickly scanned the held aloft black and white diagram. The artist had left no grisly detail un-shown. The victim was clutching the sodden mess where his ear had been but the wriggling mass of worms still biting at the tender flesh could be seen. It couldn't have been plainer.

Her son wanted to know the nature what he had done. Licking her lips, Merope leaned against a tree trunk next to her for support.

"I know you are scared Tom, but…"

Tom's little forehead creased, eyes narrowed, "I'm not scared mother! I'm simply… I want to know… I want to know what's wrong with me, why can I do it? Why did I _feel_…"

Merope watched her son's face crease further. Whatever emotion her Tom was feeling he was doing his hardest to clamp it down. Merope felt a pain in her chest.

"Tom…" she spoke softer, dropping to her knees in front of him and putting a hand on his small shoulder, "do not worry yourself over this… I - I can help you"

Tom locked eyes with her, instantly alert. "You… you can? You know how? Tell me, why - and what more? What more is there, I need to know…" he was now gripping his mother's shoulders tightly, "…Tell me who, _what_, I am…"

For one moment Merope Riddle didn't know what to do.

Then she looked down for a moment, arranging her thoughts into what needed to be said and what didn't in her mind.

When she looked back up she saw Tom's face, still as hard and confused as before. She lifted his rigid arms off her shoulders, clasping both his hands in her own.

"_Magik_ Tom – that which you have read in your book that the Mages do, is not so far from the truth of what you can do… what, I have done too, long ago…"

Tom perked up instantly, eyes glowing.

"Then I am a Mage, and you are – were – once… too?"

"No." Merope sighed.

"For our magic, we have never needed to call open the spirits or gods of common _Muggles_ – those without magic. Our power has always come from within…

No Tom, you are, or could be if you received the proper training… a wizard."

For a split second Merope saw pure wonder, and a type of joy light up her son's face. In that moment Merope was suddenly terrified.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me this sooner, mother! I had always wondered, and worried… can all wizards talk to animals? Can they make others do what they want, _control_…"

Merope heard her son talk with his child-like excitement growing and felt the unease deepen. She squeezed Tom's hands and he quietened down, but remained alert to what his mother would tell him.

"Tom, my dear…this isn't as simple as that. What you need to understand is wizards don't use their magic as we use our hands and minds, to get what we want the moment it takes our fancy."

She gestured at his book.

"…Wizards and witches… We use our magic only when necessary, when a situation calls for it. Magic is not to be used without caution. It can be destructive. Wizards use it only when necessary… completely necessary…" she paused, and Tom frowned. A strange look was in his mother's eyes "…only when completely– "

Merope's voice suddenly fell into relapse, struck at the own implication of her words. Images of the past swiftly assaulted her, flooded her brain… tantalising and distressing. Making a mockery of her. Merope didn't realise, but she was abruptly in helpless tears. She didn't even realise it when her son leant forward, as if on cue, and put his arms around her, pulling her to him.

"Stop it." He whispered evenly, coldly. "Stop thinking of _him_"

She stirred at his voice. Tom's hand bit into her shoulder as he whispered, forcefully, into her ear.

"I _will not_ have you think of him Mother. Not when you have me…"

Merope struggled, shaking herself. Then she raised her eyes, looking at Tom directly, showing him he had her attention. His blue eyes softened, as they always did. Carefully she took herself out of his embrace.

"Yes… Yes of course Tom, I'm sorry…" She stood and Tom smiled slightly as his mother regained her composure. He shook his head.

"He was a fool and a coward to leave you," he said passionately, watching Merope keenly, "I _hate_ him."

Merope forced a smile, her expression not quite reaching her eyes. "You say such kind things to me, my Tom…"

Tom's eyes sparkled. "I mean them. With all my soul."

He held her gaze for a moment and then glanced back down to the stolen book on his lap. He opened the old tome again, flicking through the pages idly. Merope saw the opportunity and turned to leave.

"Oh mother, I do still want you to tell me more about this magic…" his voice demanded of her retreating figure, "I want to know - I want to learn all there is…" Tom spoke, clear determination in his request.

Merope paused momentarily, then continued into the house.

Over the following years, Merope taught him what he desired. In the mornings she sent him to collect herbs and various other plants in the forest. In the afternoons she sat with him, side by side, beside a roughly constructed cauldron, teaching him simple potions. In the evenings she provided him with new reading material.

She still retained a few of her family's old books, although she had always kept them hidden away before. The memories they brought back were too painful to relive without reason. Tom, however, seemed permanently beside himself with joy during their 'lessons', and he hungrily sucked in all the knowledge that his mother, albeit hesitantly, provided him, begging for more each time.

Since she had told him she was a witch and of magical descent he had developed a peculiar new respect for her. In a way, he began to almost revere her. He was never now short on praise and compliments, and he increasingly enjoyed spending more and more time with her, talking, or just sitting in her presence.

He even became more affectionate whenever his mother allowed it.

Merope never once let him near her wand though. That she kept hidden. Therefore during his magical education at the Ancient House, Tom learnt only endless lists of potion recipes and their ingredients, along with the particular methods used to brew each one. Yet he had a ferocious appetite to learn, and an extraordinary memory.

They were sitting together late one afternoon outside their home, just brewing a simple sleeping draught over a fire, when Tom Riddle finally raised, offhandedly, the inevitable question that Merope had dreaded answering since beginning his impromptu education.

He sat perched on his knees, watching Merope turn the ladle once clockwise, then anti-clockwise, before taking over, repeating the procedure precisely. There was a leisurely, almost bored sense to his movements.

"Mother, I wonder. There isn't a place where wizards go, to learn more of their magic, like the Muggle boys in the village who go to their school?" He spoke softly, precisely, as if he had measured every word as he turned over the bubbling grey liquid in the pot.

Recently Tom had turned ten, and taken to straying far from home during the day. He often visited the nearby village now by himself, Merope being more concerned for the people who met him than for her son himself. What sort of things he got up to there she wasn't entirely sure but she had gathered, from bits and pieces, the main events of his encounters with some of the local boys.

She heard tell he had made great impressions on them, being the strange, lonely boy that wandered the streets alone and did as he pleased. The Muggles were curious, awed, perhaps even frightened of him, and Tom could learn anything he wanted from them, they worshipped him so. Merope wouldn't have been surprised if he had tampered with the minds of a few of the weaker ones.

"Well – yes Tom… At least, there was a school I once knew of, high in the north… But one could only enter via invitation; there was such competition…"

Tom continued stirring the potion evenly. "I _am _good enough to attend though? I have the skills…" His old hardness accompanied his words. Merope could never disagree when he used that tone.

"No! No, my clever boy, I couldn't see why they would…"

She added the wormswood, a little too briskly. Tom frowned.

'So… if I were invited then. You would allow me to go?'

He stopped what he was doing, and gazed hard at his mother, the serious question demanding a serious answer

Reluctantly Merope looked into her son's eyes. They were so hard, so _determined_…

'I – I would. I would happily allow you to go my dear, if that is what you want'

Tom stood up swiftly, sleeping draft all but forgotten. He walked around the cauldron and took his mother swiftly in a fierce hug.

'Thank you… you don't know what this means to me,' he mumbled into her cotton shawl, 'I couldn't – I _can't_ go without your blessing…'

Tom drew back, an unreadable smile on his face. From his pocket he pulled out a folded letter. The broken red seal still made a recognisable waxy 'H' on the crumpled parchment.

'It arrived yesterday morning, while you were still sleeping,' Tom whispered, handing the invitation to his bewildered mother. She opened the letter slowly, reading the preliminary paragraphs in a state of shock.

Dear Mr Riddle

Recently our records show you come of magical maturity to receive the formal education granted to the many members of your family preceding you….

… Although no official registration was made at the time of your birth, we, of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, are pleased to offer you a place at our established seat of learning, subject to parental consent…

Merope glanced at her son, who looked up from the letter back at her, a wide smile on his face. He looked as if he had just scored an unprecedented victory .

'Thank you mother, I won't ever forget this. That you _believe_ in me…

I'll make you proud. So proud…'


End file.
